


Of Portraits, Of Ghosts and Regrets

by newmrsdewinter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, angst with a redeeming ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 19:16:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5176604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newmrsdewinter/pseuds/newmrsdewinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Neville taught Herbology at Hogwarts, he avoided the Headmaster's office like the plague. </p><p>But once he began his tenure as Headmaster after Flitwick's death, there was no putting it off any longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Portraits, Of Ghosts and Regrets

When Neville taught Herbology at Hogwarts, he avoided the headmaster's office like the plague.

His years as professor were riddled with faculty meetings held in the gardens, the Great Hall, at the Leaky Cauldron - or even down by the lake with the giant squid. It was inclusive, he argued. Liberating. Nothing should be kept a secret from the students.

Minerva knew the real reason why and she sympathized. Flitwick, too, when his time as Headmaster came after she died. Now it was Neville's turn and there was no turning back.

“Sugar mice!” The stone gargoyle creaked as it rotated clockwise, revealing a staircase hidden behind the wall. Neville plodded up the steps and shook his black umbrella. Filius’s funeral was a pleasant burial, nothing like the bleak affairs he remembered from years past for Gran and his parents.

He hooked his umbrella on the stand beside the doorway and undid the clasp of his rain cloak with painstaking care. After a moment’s pause, he turned on his aching feet to scan his new office.

The portraits were empty, but that was tradition. It was customary to give new headmasters a chance to observe their new living quarters with fresh eyes, unobstructed by the incessant babble of the living relics from years past. 

His things were already here. There was his old D.A. coin and Luna’s roaring lion hat perched on one of the shelves - it was a gift, packaged with the note that she hoped it’d make him smile.

Much to his displeasure, a crate of firecrackers sat next to his desk. Business was booming for the Weasleys - apparently, time and old age couldn’t dull George Weasley’s wry sense of humor.

A few of his plants were scattered around the office as well. Lately, he started cultivating bonsai, a wandless challenge he’d taken to with much enthusiasm. He adjusted Hannah’s smiling picture frame on his desk, but after a moment’s consideration, he turned it face-down.

It didn’t take Neville long to find what he was searching for. It hung right behind his desk. _Severus Tobias Snape_ , a hastily scrawled inscription underneath the portrait flanking Dumbledore’s left. Minerva rested on his right.

He slipped his hands into his pockets and he rotated his old Remembrall in his palm.

 _“These portraits are honor-bound to give their service to you,”_ wheezed Filius a few weeks prior. _“Heed their advice well, Longbottom. You will need it.”_

Well, not this one, thought Neville bitterly. Not even decades of added wisdom could temper the age-old fear, the anxiety, that nasty sneer and the snide remarks as his cauldron steamed noxious fumes of  -

Neville shuddered and felt quite silly with himself.

When he was a child, he was even afraid to _think_ mutinous thoughts about Snape, fearful that he might hear his thoughts and mock him for it.

(Much to his terror, this later proved to be true. Snape was a highly skilled Legilimens - but Neville doubted Snape cared about him enough to read his thoughts. They were quite dull.)

Of course, the resentment stemmed deeper than a schoolboy’s fear of a stern professor. Snape did despicable things in the name of a dead woman he purportedly loved - that she chose someone else mattered very much to him and it angered him, embittered him.

Here was a man, reprehensible in content and in character, cleansed and reified of all his sins, excused from earthly penance by a wispy thread of memories in a cellar under the school.

(Neville never considered himself a secular person. Gran was a stern Roman Catholic and so was he, to some extent. It helped when times were bleak.)

During reconstruction, Snape was pardoned as if none of the atrocities he committed before the prophecy ever mattered. Apparently, true love trumped all else, even it was one-sided. Perhaps in his case, _especially_ if it was one-sided. Not even Rita Skeeter’s scathing biography on his shady past could stain his reputation as Dumbledore’s most trusted spy.

(Neville had been married long enough to know that Snape was the most ill-suited man on the planet to be married. Love was a conscious choice, a foundation built upon trust and mutual respect. Snape had neither.)

When it all came out into the open, Neville was implacable. In fact, it only solidified his already-low opinion of Severus Snape. Snape acted accordingly to three whims: what he wanted, and by extension, what Dumbledore commanded of him, and what Lily would have wanted. All three were the same in every respect. He was a man driven by selfish motivations, selfish desire for a dead woman caught in the golden years of her youth like a butterfly in a glass display. 

(Neville saw those butterflies in Snape's office during detention. They chilled him more than any dementor's kiss could.)

Despite where his true allegiances happened to lie, in spite of how, when, or where he died, Neville still regarded Snape exactly how he felt the night he killed Albus Dumbledore:

Snape was a coward who packaged selfish pursuits with noble reasons and they were very rarely why he acted at all. 

But he was young, argued Harry. He was twenty. He betrayed Voldemort knowing he faced certain death, he survived it all and more, just to help me live.

_When I was eighteen, I organized a school-wide mutiny against the Death Eaters infiltrating my school, my home, my sanctuary._

_When I was eighteen, I carried the bodies of students, my friends, too young to die, too young to give their lives to fight the whims of a mad man._

_When I was eighteen, I helped defeat the Darkest Lord in living memory._

Instead, he nodded and apologized for stepping out of line, once again the meek boy petrified to the quick by an oily sneer lurking just for him in the shadows.

_Do not tell me what a man can’t do at twenty because we both know perfectly well that we all had to grow up a little faster than most when we were young. He is no exception._

(Neville read _Catch-22_ shortly after the war. It was Hermione’s recommendation - if it were anyone else, he would have thought he was the victim of a cruel joke.)

The man who spared the life of Lily Evans's only son could not erase the menacing boggart looming out of Lupin's wardrobe, the man who made a sanctuary a source of fear and anxiety.

Here was the brave Neville Longbottom, he thought to himself ruefully. Son of the most distinguished Aurors in all the Ministry, who were cursed to insanity by the most treacherous Death Eater in living memory. And he was more afraid of a graded homework assignment than Bellatrix Lestrange and the Cruciatus curse.

(But to be fair, he never paid Bellatrix much attention until she escaped from Azkaban. He only had eyes for his broken mother and the growing collection of candy wrappers in his room.)

As Neville made his turns about his office, he paused in front of the glass display showcasing Gryffindor's silver sword. He clasped his hands behind his back and turned his myopic eyes to the familiar rubies encrusted on the hilt.

"Are you ashamed of your blood, Neville?" screeched Gran angrily. "You should be _proud_ , Neville, _proud!”_

And he was proud. He never felt prouder to live up to his parents’ legacy more than the moment he slew Voldemort's snake. The moment the head hit the grass, he felt his mother's hand on his shoulder and his father nodding at him in the back. _You did it._

 _“Only a true Gryffindor could have pulled the sword out of that hat,”_ he heard Dumbledore say in another life. Or had he imagined it? Perhaps Ron said it when he wasn’t paying attention. The sword felt familiar in his hand, like an extension of his arm that he never knew could complete him. It felt like home.

Even now, Dumbledore smiled upon him dotingly from his perch on the wall like an elderly father welcoming his wayward son home. At least that's what Neville thought. He wouldn't know the feeling. He never had children of his own. The very sight of children made him ache with longing, but it could never happen. Not in this lifetime.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” scolded Neville softly.

“Forgive an old man his scruples, Neville,” said Dumbledore pleasantly. He peered down at him from his portrait. “We can both pretend that I am not present.”

Neville gave a noncommittal noise and sunk into his chair. They both knew that wasn't going to happen. He rubbed his temples with bony fingers and scowled at Dumbledore through half-lidded eyes, giving the impression of a very ruffled owl.

Dumbledore hummed to himself. “Ah, what was it that I said all those years ago?” he asked himself aloud. “It takes a great deal of courage to stand up to your enemies, but even more to stand up to your friends.” He winked at Neville kindly.

“That was a very mean thing to do to Slytherin,” said Neville severely. “It was unfair.” His thoughts went to the first-years, confused and rightfully livid that their points were overtaken by an apparent night of courage that only he and the Golden Trio were privy to.

When _he_ was officially headmaster, there would be no House biases or blatant favoring in the least. _He_ would stress Inter-House unity over the Inter-House tournaments. He would not enable such petty rivalries to fester under his rule.

Dumbledore ignored him. “I am sorry that Nicolas and his wife had to meet their end that way,” he said lightly. “I was told they would have preferred to die in Paris with their kinsmen. Well, not that there were very many of them left, anyhow.”

A grave silence followed. Neville didn’t care about the Philosopher’s stone, Nicolas Flamel, or even the measly points he earned for raising his fists against Harry Potter that night. His thoughts were still fixed on someone else.

“I never expected anything less than greatness from you, Neville,” said Dumbledore gently. “And if I am to believe that you would let a ghost from your past prevent you from -”

“Stop,” said Neville quietly. “I will not hear it.”

“Oh, but hear it you shall!” exclaimed Dumbledore. “If not from me, then surely from Minerva, or even Filius when his portrait is erected.”

But never from Snape himself, thought Neville ruefully. He’d never give him the satisfaction.

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” asked Neville. “I haven’t run away. See?” He picked up Hannah’s picture frame. “I’m not leaving.”

“Of course not. You’d never hear the end of it if you did,” said Dumbledore, chuckling softly. “I’m afraid that we are too old for me to tell you what to do and you to listen -”

Neville snorted derisively.

“- But the choice is yours. You _did_ petition to keep your old offices, if my rumors are correct.”

“I did.”

“And you were unsuccessful.” This more of a statement than a question. Neville realized belatedly that Dumbledore had been bluffing and was slightly miffed at himself for falling for his trap.

“The reply never came through. Must’ve gotten lost in the post.”

“Well,” said Dumbledore. “Perhaps it was for the best.”

Another tense silence followed.

“A headmaster who is afraid of his own office is not fit to be headmaster at all,” said Neville irritably. “I’m not running away, Albus. In fact, I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing here in the first place!” He ended with a self-deprecating chuckle and he opened one of the drawers in his desk.  

Inside were crimson tins of boiled candies, courtesy of Flitwick’s sweet tooth. Neville held his squeamish stomach and shut the drawer with more force than he intended. He groaned.

“Well-stated,” said Dumbledore approvingly. “Severus felt very much the same when he took office.”

“Not without good reason,” said Neville darkly. He screwed his eyes shut. 

“And I am sorry that I took advantage of his emotions that way,” said Dumbledore, but he was sincere. He looked more like a child caught in mischief than the noble wizard Neville knew so well. “It was unfair of me. Although, I was quite certain he would be remembered kindly when it was all said and done.”

Neville wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

“Forgive an old man his scruples,” said Dumbledore again. “We are not all saints.”

And they never spoke of the matter again.

 

* * *

 

Weeks later, Neville held a meeting with the Governors in the Great Hall.

“I would like to have his portrait moved.”

They knew him well enough to know which “he” he referred to, but they protested all the same.

“Moved? Sir! It is tradition in the castle for -”

“- I said _moved_ ,” interrupted Neville tersely. "Not removed."

“Mr. Potter specifically requested -”

“I know what Harry wants,” said Neville wearily. “And I have his approval.” He pushed a letter into their hands. The crimson wax bore the shape of the jagged lightning scar they knew too well.

“I want him facing me at my desk. Not behind me.”

Never more would that sneer shake his convictions, reduce him to a trembling mess of stuttered apologies and held-back tears. He would meet Severus as equals, as men broken by their circumstances and weary and tired beyond their years.

They were more alike than he'd care to admit. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> it’s important to note that Neville is being very hypocritical. He sympathizes with the first-year Slytherins (which includes Malfoy btw. some of these kids did horrible things during the Second War.) from the End of the Year feast after the fiasco with the stone, but he can’t see past Snape’s reputation as a Death Eater and all.
> 
> it's one in the morning. forgive me if this doesn't make sense! haha.


End file.
